


Just One Night

by 221Bombastic, Wessa5ever



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Funny, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, Romantic Comedy, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Bombastic/pseuds/221Bombastic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wessa5ever/pseuds/Wessa5ever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock screws up...big time. To make it up to John and redeem himself, Sherlock takes them on a wild adventure through London, featuring a quick case, some very human and non-Sherlockian recreational fun, haunting nightmares of Afghanistan, drunken karaoke, harassment of the homeless network and a VERY interesting first dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Promises Made

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic was inspired by three things. An "Imagine Your Otp" prompt, an "Imagine Sherlock" caption and very adorable fanart! We had so much fun writing this and I was sort of laughing so hard I had to wipe tears off my computer screen while writing their drunken fun fest.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Please, John. I'll make it up to you. I promise. Give me one more night, I beg of you." 
> 
> "One more night? Are you kidding me, Sherlock?" John shouted, unbelievable. He let out a breathlessly cruel laugh. "If you hadn't been gone for a week, you would've had several nights."

Sherlock's voice cracked as he comprehended the words his flat mate had just said. "John?" 

Watson merely shook his head, drained of all his rage and energy. A moment before the good doctor had been seething, his face red and sweat beading on his forehead as he screamed at Sherlock. He was livid, for Sherlock had been missing for a week, and just now returned with no explanation.

Sherlock shuddered as John's voice echoed back in his thoughts. "No, Sherlock! This is the last time! I will not be treated like rubbish then be expected to take care of you anymore! I just can't! Find someone else to be your skull, I'm finished." 

Sherlock felt sick to his stomach. He could feel panic seizing his heart in a frenzied grip and he scrambled to appease John. "Please, John. I'll make it up to you. I promise. Give me one more night, I beg of you." 

             "One more night? Are you kidding me, Sherlock?" John shouted, unbelievable. He let out a breathlessly cruel laugh. "If you hadn't been gone for a week, you would've had several nights." The man turned to go up the stairs when Sherlock grabbed his arm and turned him around.

             "John, I'm begging you. How many chances in a lifetime do you get to see me beg?" The detective smirked, but quickly wiped it off of his face when he saw that John was not amused. "Look, John. I know I made an error, but if you leave, who will I have to help keep me in line? One night. I’ll make it up to you. Please?" Sherlock was seriously considering getting on his knees and pleading, but the blogger responded just as he was lowering himself.

            "Ugh, Sherlock, I..." John looked up at the man. "Wait, what were you just about to do?"

Sherlock looked around uncomfortably. "I don't know what you're talking about. What do you say?" he asked looking John in the eyes.

            John sighed, getting lost in his thoughts for a moment. He rapidly straightened making him appear strong and confident. "Fine, but just one night, and if this isn't the best night of my life," he paused for effect and looked deep into the detectives eyes. Sherlock could feel his stare penetrate deep into his soul, reading his secrets," I will leave, and _never_ come back. You won't have anyone to fix you. Are we clear?"

Sherlock nodded, war and unsure, a feeling he did not experience often.

"Great. So what do you have planned for me?" John turned around, smiling to himself and pretending to look through the mail, leaving a flustered Sherlock behind him. 

Sherlock faltered. How did one go about apologizing to his best friend? "Well, I thought I'd let you loose in London." he smirked. "We could have a night out."   
  
            John smiled to himself at that, and settled in with the paper for a few hours before going out with Sherlock to solve a case. It seemed difficult to John, and to Lestrade, who had asked the two to come have a look. A mother had been found murdered by her two children during their household game of hide and go seek. She had supposedly been kilometers away at an event for her office firm, and the children's governess denied ever having known that she was in the house. It was not a particularly hard case, but Sherlock was interested, so they took a cab to the Yard. 

Sherlock, undoubtedly, loved impressing John. He loved the look of utter astonishment that crept onto his friend’s face whenever after solving a seemingly impossible case. He wore a mask of emotionless indifference, instead of letting on that he already had a concrete idea of who the murderer was as they stepped out of the car and into the bustling crime scene. Sherlock lifted the police tape for John, Lestrade gave them the basic information about the case, and after an exchange of contumely between Sherlock and Anderson, and then between Sherlock and Donovan, the detective and the blogger made their way into the flat and up the stairs to the room where the body was.

It was a small flat, but lavishly furnished with posh décor, the type one would expect to see in a magazine. The tables were glass, the seating white leather and plastic, and the floors were grey tile with snowy fur throws. It all looked very expensive, very unlived in, and untouchable.

 All the while, Sherlock was making mental notes, appearing to be merely gazing around. Sherlock immediately noticed the governess who was being questioned outside. She had an extremely red face and red eyes, which could be from the previous events, but it appeared to be from the temperature of her face and irritation. Her nails were bitten to stubs, most likely from nervousness. Her eyes were dilated and she looked incredibly sick. She was wearing a necklace that looked to be pure gold with diamonds.  Sherlock averted his attention back to the light wooden door in front of him. It opened to reveal the rather disheveled bedroom of the murder victim and her spouse. Sherlock took in everything. There was an air purifier in the corner, currently running. The body was slumped in the opposite corner. The woman was dressed in a calf length green satin dress. Her black and green scarf was draped over her mouth, her left arm holding it in position while her right arm clutched her stomach. Her purse was lying next to her. All of the contents were splayed out on the floor, but one key thing was missing from the pile. Anderson walked into the room to presumably tell him the cause of death, but Sherlock already knew. 

"Gas leak," Sherlock said as Anderson opened his mouth. "She must've been inhaling it for at least an hour for it to have fatal effects. She noticed the presence of gas in the room before her death, attempting to create a mask with her scarf and hoping someone would find her. Therefore, she was trapped in here, meaning locked in, because she let herself in the room. She came back here to retrieve her forgotten phone, but it wasn't present. Subsequently, she is murdered. By whom you ask? Judging by the rate at which that air purifier is working and when you put it in here, she would've been dead for three hours, but she came into the house at one and was dead by three and was found at four and now it is nine, so the times don't coincide. No one else was affected by the leak, except for the governess. The leak was only in this room because it had a gas line separate from the rest of the building, as it was originally part of the original structure. But the children were the ones to find the body, and they haven't been poisoned at all, so the room was aired out, the gas turned off, and the door unlocked directly after she was killed. The husband wasn't home; he was still at the work event. _He_ had her phone When she came in to the house looking for the phone, she went to the only place it might be. Upon entering her bedroom, she noticed the smell, although she didn't know that it was gas she smelled until later. She heard her door close and lock. Connecting the dots, she searched for her phone everywhere, but it wasn't there because, again, her husband had it. So, who closed the door? _The governess_." Sherlock paused and looked around at startled and questioning faces.

 

"The governess closed the door and locked it, counting down the seconds to her employer’s death. She turned on the leak, and as a result was exposed to the gas as well. She turned it on after the woman and her husband left for the event, giving the gas time to pervade the room before the woman came back looking for her phone. After she died, the governess turned off the leak and unlocked the door, making it look like an accident. She is now suffering from gas poisoning, showing symptoms of nausea, nervousness, fever, and irritation. She killed the woman because she was having an affair with the woman's husband. She loves him and believes that he loves her back. He gave her the necklace she is wearing. In all actuality, he has a string of lovers and simply used the governess, knowing she would kill his wife for him."

 

Sherlock sighed and took in a breath. He turned and started for the door, knowing John would follow. "Oh, come on Lestrade, even Anderson could've gotten that one." he shouted over his shoulder before exiting the scene.


	2. Hole In One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anyway, here is your put."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is so short!

John's face was frozen for a moment before he grinned up at Sherlock. "That's...its fantastic, you know that?"

 

When Sherlock returned the smile, John felt his chest flutter. He couldn't stay mad at Sherlock for long, after all Sherlock was his best mate, but he had been totally serious about leaving. He waited for Sherlock to catch the eye of a cabbie so they could be off to wherever he had in mind. He had exactly four hours as of now to convince John to stay. John got into the cab behind Sherlock, and settled in. The cabbie asked for an address. Sherlock responded with the address he had found hours earlier. Believe it or not, arcades aren't all that popular in London, so it took him a while to find a place with the right features. Sherlock could see John getting antsy as the minutes ticked by. The arcade was on the edge of town, so it was a long drive, especially with Saturday night traffic. 

 

Eventually, the cab stopped. Sherlock threw some cash at the cabbie and then dragged John out of the cab. John was momentarily flustered by the sudden contact, but he was then confused, not knowing his surroundings.

"Sherlock, where...?" John trailed off as he saw a glowing neon sign. The rest of the building appeared run down and old. _Is the man crazy?_ John thought to himself. _Oh wait, yes, he is._

"So...erm, Sherlock?" John began awkwardly, staring up at the building. "What are we doing here?"

 

"Mini-golf."

 

"I'm sorry, what?" John questioned suspiciously. 

 

Sherlock huffed, tossing curls out of his face. "Mini-golf, John. Put-put. A smaller, more recreational version of the sport played with 18 holes on a green."

 

Sherlock scowled, he honestly had thought John would have been please with him trying to do something so...ordinary.  But John was more than pleased, he was absolutely amazed. They were actually doing something regular people considered fun. They weren't dumpster diving for clues or massacring a corpse, they were playing mini golf! John could only nod and smirk, lost in his thoughts. It took him a while to realize Sherlock had been speaking to him. Sherlock peered into his friend's eyes.       

 

"Are you quite alright, John?" he pursed his lips. "I've been talking to you." 

 

"Huh? Oh yeah, yeah, I'm fine. What were you saying?" 

 

"I was asking if you had ever played but I see that you have, by your look of recognition. Anyway, here is your put." John looked around and saw that they had moved inside the old building without him realizing and that Sherlock had already chosen their game and puts. The inside of the building was all black and neon colors. There were arcade games, some older than John was. "Wow, I think I remember coming here as a kid." John said as he took the club from Sherlock and they started heading for the outside course.  

  
            John grimaced. Good Lord, this was taking forever. They were only on the fourth hole, and Sherlock had been "calculating" his move for ten minutes now, measuring distance and cataloguing the ball's velocity. Sure, he had made a hole in one every time, but at this rate it would be ages before they finished the course. 

 

"Don't you ever just swing and miss like a normal person?" John teased.

 

Sherlock snapped to attention with a huff. He was put off by the cheesy atmosphere and decor, and the annoying sing-song playing on loop in the background disrupting his thinking. He fixed John with a piercing stare out of the corner of his eye, making John shiver.

 

"No, I don't ever JUST DO anything. You should know that by now." he smirked, and struck the small dimpled ball with his club. The white blur flew straight down the hill, rising over the bump to hit the exact angle of the curb, depositing in the hole with a clatter. He smiled triumphantly down at his flat mate, who grumbled as he walked to the front. The doctor jammed his ball in makeshift tee worn into the artificial turf, and whacked it with the club. It rolled over the hill, stopping a meter away from the hole. He aimed again, and the little ball narrowly curved around it. As he muttered about the courses "being rigged", he heard Sherlock's soft laugh behind him as he marked down six strokes before they moved on to the next hole. 

 

By the end of the 18th hole, Sherlock had won, 18 to 74. Sherlock had a smirk on his face that seemed to permanently be there.

"So, what next?" Sherlock asked after he turned in the puts.

"I don't know, you're the one who planned this night out." John grumbled, annoyed at the past hour in a half. He wasn't mad that he lost, just that they wasted a portion of their time together.

 "Oh, right, right. Hm…let's see what's next on the agenda." Sherlock looked far off into the distance, thinking, John figured. Sherlock head suddenly snapped back to John. "Ah! I know exactly what we’re doing!" With that, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and ran back into the rickety building. John couldn't help but feel a flash of déjà vu. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again
> 
> @PLEASE COMMENT@


	3. Watch that PTSD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Baker Street boys screeched the song drunkenly at the top of their lungs, shaking their butts and grooving to Bowie to the displeasure of the other patrons."
> 
> Update: This chapter is formally dedicated to the memory of David Robert Jones (Bowie) and lovingly written in honor of his legacy- 1/11/16 Long Live the Starman <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we /would/ finish the next chapter but......season three starts in half an hour. GOOD LUCK ALL MY SHERLOCKIANS!

Sherlock dragged John into a small section of the arcade. He outfitted them with thick vests, weighed down by wires, and they pushed through a turnstile into a dark, futuristic room. Lights began to flash and lasers shot colors across the walls to the thump of action metal. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who smiled. 

 

"The game is on!" he cried, as they were both handed guns. John's hands settled firmly around it before he could realize it, but he shivered a little as the pounding back beat became gunshots. Sherlock dashed off "to map out the arena", leaving John alone, just like on their cases. He surveyed the room he was in as the familiar sense of déjà vu rose in his chest. 

 

John felt sweat creep up on his neck. He stumbled farther into the labyrinth of caverns and lights. He heard soft footsteps behind him and swiftly turned around, pulling the trigger of his laser gun, hitting a kid right on target. Suddenly, he wasn't in an arcade. The guns were genuine and the plastic maze was dirt and buildings. The kid he just temporarily disarmed was a person he just killed. He heard loud gunshots and explosions. He looked up and saw Sherlock in the enemy's clothing. _That isn't right_ , he thought to himself. Sherlock had a gun, and it was aimed at John. John pulled his trigger first, but Sherlock was faster and he ducked onto the hot, dusty ground, while pulling the trigger, hitting John right in the chest.

John gasped and sank to the floor on his knees, hands fanned out over his chest. Pain bloomed across his pectorals and spots swam before his eyes. He felt wet blood staining his palms, and he heard a muffled curse before strong arms were encircling him, wrapping around his shoulders tightly. Sherlock drew his blogger into his lap, and John buried his face into his friend’s neck, seeking out the soothing warmth. A cool hand brushed across his brow, and he stopped caring that Sherlock wore the enemy uniform because Sherlock was his friend, he had killed for this man, this man had died for him and he loved this man--- _Wait_. _Oh God_ , he really was going crazy! A loud monotone buzzer assaulted John’s ear drum from above, and he was whisked back into reality. He’d had a PTSD attack...that was all that had happened. There was no battlefield; he had not been fatally shot in the chest by his flat mate. Watson exhaled a shaky breath as Sherlock nonsensical syllables began to reassemble as words in his mind. The man’s deep baritone whispered hushed apologies.

“John. John, I am sorry. This was stupid of me, I didn’t even think about the fact that you might---”

The words died out as John concluded that the comforting arms that held him were, in fact, a part of reality. His eyes darted up to Sherlock’s stricken expression as he barked out, “No, Sherlock, I’m fine. I just need a drink.” His partner nodded, swiftly pulling the doctor to his feet and shoving him into a cab.

 

The pub they went to was one close to Baker Street, and often frequented by John, along with Mike Stamford or Lestrade when he needed company besides Sherlock Holmes. The moment his arse hit the chair John had ordered two shots of whiskey and a beer, gulping them down as he tossed a few pounds at the bartender. Sherlock lingered awkwardly beside him, tugging off the black leather gloves that adorned his hands, unwillingly to sit gingerly in the seat next to Watson. He was eventually convinced by an adjacent customer, who politely suggested in his slurred American accent that Sherlock, “Try the Pinot Grigio.”

Surprised they carried the brand at such a common pub, the consultant detective settled in with a glass that quickly turned into six glasses. John matched Sherlock’s alcohol surplus with eight beers of his own with five more shots to boot. Soon both men were giggling at the sports match on the telly, receiving sympathetic nods from all those not yet drunk in at the bar, and a knowing glare from the manager. A perky young waitress with several ear piercings and screaming blonde hair cranked the dial on the radio to blast the song playing.

“Oh, this is my jam!” she squealed to her companion, a tall woman in her late forties with graying brown locks and a lazy eye. Sherlock scoffed at her.

“Please, you only listen to this song because it was in playing the background when you lost your virginity three months ago. You hate this song like you secretly hate your boyfriend. The only reason you’re dancing to it is because the memories it conjures are somehow better than your hatred of this job.” The girl’s brick red painted mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ as it dropped open, and the other woman quirked her eyebrows in an amused manner.

“Yea?” she shot back. “Well, at least I’m not royally knackered on a Saturday night with my gay lover!” Sherlock turned to find John wearing a bemused expression, and both men fell over with laughter. They laughed until their sides ached and tears wear streaming down John’s face. They were not just tears of hilarity, but were tears for the entire night the ex-army doctor didn’t know he had needed to shed.

The song changed, the opening tune of “Watch That Man” pumping through the tiny radio speakers. Sherlock smirked at John, grabbing his hands and pulling him to stand on top of their stools. The Baker Street boys screeched the song drunkenly at the top of their lungs, shaking their butts and grooving to Bowie to the displeasure of the other patrons.

“WATCH THAT MAN! OH HONEY, WATCH THAT MAA-AAN! HE TALKS LIKE A JERK BUT HE COULD EAT YOU WITH A FORK AND A SPOON!” slurred the two. A few tipsy others hummed along as John attempted to twirl Sherlock on his rickety chair. It rattled and rocked from side to side on its uneven legs, and their difference in height did not aid poor hedgehog John. The detective fell to the floor with a loud crash and silence fell over the bar, save the injured man’s startled yelp. John choked down his laughter as the manager escorted them to the door. He apologized for both of them profusely, as Sherlock was hanging back because he was offended by their removal from the bar, his arms crossed and a pout drawing his lips into a puckered expression. Nevertheless, they were forced to exit the bar, and as they had spent all of their cab fare, also forced to walk home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again
> 
>  
> 
> @PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE COMMENT@
> 
>  
> 
> for any of you who do not know the song Watch That Man by David Bowie,
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RYpo5uKGDSg#action=share


	4. Change of Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The small part of him that wasn't completely off-the-rocker angry was telling him to calm down. It was saying that he was making John uneasy. John would never love him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOSH! WHAT'S THIS? COULD IT BE...AN UPDATE?
> 
>  
> 
> WHY YES IT IS!
> 
>  
> 
> HERE TAKE IT!

The walk home was mostly silent, save for a few incoherent slurs and the sound of their uneven footsteps. After what John believed to be 47 minutes, but was actually only 16, Sherlock cleared his throat. "So, John," Sherlock stopped walking and most lost his balance. He grabbed onto John's arm for support, but John was just as wasted as Sherlock, so they both tumbled over into the dirty gutter.

 "Was this the bet night of your life?" Sherlock asked, ignoring what had just happened. John couldn't help but be very aware or Sherlock lying on top of him.

"Uh, Sherlock? I'm kind of getting soaked and it's freezing out."

"What? Oh sorry." Sherlock attempted to push himself up, but failed and just landed sitting on top of John. He attempted to cover up his mistake. "No, I'm not moving until you answer my question." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, mimicking an upset toddler.

"What que... Oh right. Well, considering I had a PTSD attack and we wasted an hour in a half and I am now freezing.... You still haven't made it up to me." The water had woken John up a bit, enough for his thoughts to make sense, although he was still slurring and stuttering.

"Well then...." Sherlock suddenly burped," it's a good thing that this night isn't over." He rolled off of John into the gutter and suddenly jumped up. "Jesus, John that is cold. Why are you still down there?" John pushed himself up slowly. 

“I don’t know…” he sighed dejectedly. “Can we just go home?” Sherlock could feel his heart breaking. John would leave tomorrow and never return. His John. His John. Then he was angry, like he wanted to hit things and break things so that John would see his desperation and stay with him, because he needed John. Who else in this world that shunned his genius could keep him sane?

It just so happened that they were passing by a small portion of the homeless network, where they holed up for the night sound the flames of burning trash for warmth and shared grungy articles of clothing and food. One particular homeless man was off to the side, staring quizzically at the others, swaddled in a long beige trench coat. He seemed to not be a part of the group, and Sherlock had never done him any favors before. He was a perfect target for ridicule, and the Consultant Detective needed to release his anger. He sauntered over to the man, his hips swaying drunkenly.

The man opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Sherlock delivered a swift punch to the man’s face. His nose began to trickle dark blood that glinted in the lamplight. Sherlock heard the thud of a body hitting the ground. He turned his head and surveyed his new audience. A small group of homeless people had gathered around. They looked at him with hesitant eyes. They all seemed to be in the network; Sherlock had used each of them at least once. He couldn't be sure, his mind was still blurry and the only thing he could think about was his frustrations. In the back of his mind he sensed John's presence. The small part of him that wasn't completely off-the-rocker angry was telling him to calm down. It was saying that he was making John uneasy. John would never love him. The logical part of his mind managed to increase the others animosity. He snapped to attention, standing as straight as he could in his current state, ignoring the pain of his bruised knuckles. He pivoted and stepped over the man he had just punched. Sherlock took note that the man seemed to be sitting there, unharmed, watching blankly and curiously. Sherlock zeroed in on a homeless woman to his left. 

"You!" He said, jabbing a finger in her face. "Why don't you wash your hair and call your dying mother for once. I mean, you plan to take all her money and get off the streets once she dies anyways." He turned to a balding old man. "And you! You wouldn't even be here if you didn't abandon your wife and three children for a life of gambling that left you on the streets!"

 

"And YOU!" He cried, his tongue tripping over the words. "Why don't you change your ratty coat, comb your ruffled hair, have proper shave and FIX YOUR BACKWARDS TIE!" He turned to scrutinize the man he'd punched with his eyes, but found that he had vanished. 

 

"Whu-what?" he stuttered, and John gaped along with him. "He's just....poof!" 

 

"We really must be drunk, Sherls." John laughed, anxiety over his friend's outburst creeping into his mind as it cleared. John hadn't the slightest idea about what happened. They were walking and suddenly BAM. Literally. The poor magic man didn't see it coming. John didn't either. Sherlock's mood changed so drastically it gave John whiplash. As the pair walked away from the bewildered, and some scarred, homeless people, John's head stared to become less incoherent. Maybe Sherlock's scene shouldn't have been as surprising to John as it was. The couple had been acting different around each other since Sherlock got back. Maybe the idea that John was going to end their friendship- no, this was more than friendship. John didn't have any excuse for thinking those thoughts. The alcohol was no longer affecting him severely. He knew that their relationship was special. He couldn't deny it. He didn't think Sherlock could stand denying it anymore. John should've paid more attention to his... (what does one call their more-than-friend?) person's feelings. 

John took Sherlock's arm, clutching tightly. "Sherlock, what the hell was that?"

 

You were going to leave me. He thought, but before he could answer a sickeningly familiar black Mercedes pulled up, the door being thrust open.

 

 "Get in, brother mine." said the snooty voice that Sherlock loathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHA! wasn't Sherlock punching that angel just great....I mean what? who said anything about an angel?
> 
>  
> 
> DOES ANYONE STILL READ THIS????


	5. I Wanna Hold Your Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ah, John. What a beautiful woman you make."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TAKE THIS AH ANOTHER CHAPTER AH

"Is there no freedom?" Sherlock groaned as he rolled his head back. John wasn't as irritated by Mycroft's appearance. His clothes were starting to frost and he truly wasn't in the mood to get any limbs amputated. 

 

"Let's not throw a tantrum, brother. I've already missed part of my legislative event for parliament. If I'm gone any longer I will miss the discussion on our... plans with America. Just get in." Mycroft rolled up his window exasperatedly. Anthea opened the right side door and John slid in, glad for the warmth. Reluctantly, Sherlock scooted up next to him. John couldn't help but notice that the places their bodies were touching- things, knees, and arms- were the fastest to become warm. 

 

Sherlock noticed that John's face seemed to be getting warmer. The shorter man eked out a polite "Hello again, Anthea." to which he got no response but the tapping of keys. 

 

Sherlock heaved a sigh, dramatically. "Just WHERE are we going, then?" he snapped in annoyance.

 

"You? To cleanup of course." Mycroft sniffed. "I wouldn't have you appear at the gala looking as you do now!"

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John coughed into his fist. They were going to the gala? As if reading their minds, Mycroft chimed in, 

"Well, of course you're going! There must be some punishment for you two! You're little drunken outing cost me a ten minute session with THE QUEEN!"

 

"Oh, boo." Sherlock dead-panned. "Brother Dear can't get chummier with the royals."

 

As they rounded a turn, they slid to the left. John most of all because he was the smallest. Sherlock put an arm around John's waist without thinking to steady him, and decided it was nice there, and so left it. Mycroft, sitting in the passenger's seat merely raised his eyebrows at him, but made no comment. 

 

 

The car pulled up in front of 221B. Sherlock and John were rushed out. They took showers, shaved, brushed their teeth, and got dressed, all in less than thirty minutes, even with Sherlock's protests. When they left the flat it was just after midnight and they were on their way to Buckingham Palace. 

 

John felt like he could barely breathe. Somehow Sherlock's arm had ended up around his waist again. They seemed to be pressed up against each other, even without the force of the car's turns. John tried to distance himself, but Sherlock's grip was too tight. John looked at the man and found Sherlock staring out the window. Sherlock turned his head to face John, leaned down, and whispered a simple, barely audible, "No." 

 

Sherlock turned back to the window. Even though John tried to convince himself that Sherlock was still highly intoxicated, John decided he was glad the car's cabin was dark, so no one could notice his face becoming the shade of a tomato and his smile attempting to break through the darkness. 

 

 

Once they arrived at the event, Mycroft hustled them into the foyer, where he told them to "mingle" and "I swear on my life, Sherlock, if you disrupt any of my plans you will be sorry." Then with a cheery, "Have fun, boys!" and a tap of his umbrella, he was gone. 

 

John looked down, suddenly self-conscious in the suits Mycroft had given them. His was light gray, with a dark shirt and tie. Sherlock's was the classic tux, and John hadn't been able to help swallowing thickly when the man first waltz out of his bedroom in it. John shivered at the memory, blaming it on the fact that his hair was still damp from the cold showers they'd both been forced to take in order to sober them up a bit. He caught Sherlock staring at him, and smirked. 

 

"What, Holmes?"

 

Sherlock smiled, coming over to him. "Nothing...just admiring the dancers." 

 

"Oh, yea. You do like to dance, don't you?" John said, grinning. Sherlock nodded, looking almost bashful. "I do." 

 

"Good. Come on then!" John suddenly said happily, laughing as he dragged a surprised Sherlock onto the dance floor. 

 

To their awkward misfortune, Sherlock found that the moment they stepped on the floor, a waltz began to play. He cursed, feeling as though his overly caring brother most certainly had something to do with it. 

 

John tensed at the change in music. He had never learned how to waltz, or to ballroom dance in general. He thought it would be fun to just twirl and gyrate, or whatever people count as dancing now, to the pop song that was previously playing. 

 

Suddenly, Sherlock put his arm around John's shoulder blade and pulled him towards him. He held his left arm out to the side of him. John stared confusedly at the hand, and then realized he was supposed to put his hand on top of Sherlock's larger one. John looked down quickly to collect himself and cleared his throat. He looked back up at Sherlock.

 

"I suppose this means I'm the woman," John stated as he put his left arm on Sherlock's shoulder and his right in Sherlock's hand. Sherlock smirked. "Ah, John. What a beautiful woman you make." 

 

With that, Sherlock straightened up, and right on the beat he stepped diagonally forward. John stumbled back and would have fallen, had Sherlock not been holding him. Sherlock couldn't help but laugh, but continued to dance, allowing John to figure the dance out and then get into the beat.

 

 "Not much of a dancer are you, Johnette?" Sherlock asked, breaking John out of his steady counting in his head. 

 

"Hmm? What?" John questioned as he raised his head from looking at their feet. He found Sherlock's piercing blue eyes staring directly at him. "No, I suppose I'm not. Just another thing you're amazing at and I'm below par." John said, averting his eyes, before suddenly snapping his head back to Sherlock's face, "Johnette? Really?"

 

Well it was either that, or Joan." Sherlock said, unable to hide his grin. "And Joan sounds like the name of some American woman who solves crimes." He smiled. The band finished their song and quickly jumped into a happy instrumental version of The Beatles', "I Want to Hold Your Hand." John slowly dropped his hand from Sherlock's shoulder, but before he could retrieve his hand from Sherlock's, the detective repositioned their hands so they were intertwined, looked around awkwardly, and then pulled John off of the dance floor. John wondered if the Beatles were secretly hypnotists. Sherlock was HOLDING HIS HAND. He looked down at their union. 

 

"Are-are we going to, you know, talk about this...Sherlock?" 

 

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. His heart mimicked his feet. He turned his head ever so slightly to indicate he was listening to John, but didn't face him.

 

"T-talk," Sherlock cleared his throat, “Talk about what?" He held his head higher and sounded more sure of himself and oblivious. Sherlock hoped John wasn't referring to their intertwined hands or their close contact that had been an ongoing occurrence throughout the night. John sighed. In his peripheral vision, Sherlock saw John's face. The man looked conflicted, like he was trying to muster up courage for what he was about to say. 

 

"Why are we holding hands? Especially like... that." John tilted his head toward their connected hands and then quickly looked away.

 

Sherlock began to panic. He didn't know what John was feeling. He couldn't even decipher his own feelings. He has at least figured he liked John, which he didn't feel towards many people. Most of the time, not even his parents. But saying "like" made Sherlock feel like he was wrong. Saying he "liked" John's friendship made him feel like he was lying to himself. He tried telling himself the opposite: that he hated John, but that made him feel worse. There were only a few other options and Sherlock knew nothing of them and didn't know how to decide if he felt those certain feelings. Sherlock quickly came up with a fib and spouted it at John without a glance.

 

"The bull-man behind you who had had a few more drinks than needed tonight and a lot more chips than needed throughout his life was about to back into you. Being the courteous gentleman I am, I simply pulled you out of the way of peril in the quickest, most effective way. That involved me grabbing your fingers with my own." Sherlock saw John look behind him, searching for an overweight man on the dance floor. He of course, didn't find one.

 

"I don't see any "bull-man."" John turned back to Sherlock.

 

"Really? He must have sat down. It was the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. What's his name?" Sherlock mumbled.

 

"Edward Heath?" John Ventured.

 

"Yes! Yes, that was the bull..."

 

"Sherlock, Edward Heath has been dead for almost a decade. He died on July 17, 2005. I remember because it was my mate’s birthday. What is going on?" John was now staring directly at Sherlock.

 

"Oh that's a shame, it must've been someone else then," Sherlock brushed it off.

 

"Sherlock," John scowled, "I am going back to the flat." He turned in his heel and started walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* its....almost....over!


	6. Goodnight, Edward Heath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You did alright, Holmes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS LOVELY TYSM EVERYONE! xoxo -221B
> 
> Hey. Bye. I'm a nerd. -Wessa

John got into a cab and closed the door, only for it to be opened a second later by Sherlock. Sherlock closed the door and told the cabbie their address. There was a long, uncomfortable silence before Sherlock finally spoke up. 

 

"Let me explain."

 

"Explain why you were really holding my hand?" John sounded sad. "I'd love to know....I thought maybe it was because you-" he broke off, sighing and leaned his head against the cab window, watching the lights of London fly by.   


"I do, you know." Sherlock murmured softly. He raised his head to look at John, who either was either in shock or didn't hear him. John head snapped up abruptly. 

 

"You... What? What do I know, Sherlock?" John said, leaning closer to Sherlock.

 

"I'm afraid I can't say, John. But I do believe you know." 

 

"You're the smart one."

 

"You're the one with feelings."

 

"Apparently you are too, now."

 

"John."

 

"Sherlock."

 

"You're not making this easy."

 

"I am never, ever, going to make things easy for you, consulting detective."

 

"I suppose I don't like things easy." 

 

"No, you don't." Throughout their banter they had gotten closer and close. John could feel Sherlock's breath on his face. He smelled of mint and alcohol. It was as intoxicating as wine.  The cab pulled up in front of 221B. Sherlock through a few pounds at the driver and pulled John out of the bad and up the stairs, by his hand. He slammed the door and turned around. His body was less than a foot away from John's. John was against the door.

 

"John Hamish Watson?"

 

"Yes, William Sherlock Scott Holmes?"

 

“I love you.”

 

John felt the whole world go still around him for a moment, as though some man flying around in a crazy box had just stopped time. Then all of a sudden, he surged forward to crash his lips against the taller man's. He was on tiptoe, and Sherlock leaned forward, pressing him against the wall. When they finally resurfaced for air, Sherlock murmured 

 

"You're even going to say it back?" with a smile against John's neck. 

 

"There wasn't time...but I love you." John said, laughing. They were holding hands once again. "But don't lie again. I don't like being lied to, especially when it’s a horrible lie about government officials." 

 

  
"How was I supposed to know that he was dead?" Sherlock and John both erupted in laughter. The tension between the two dispersed and they were completely relaxed. John loved being like this with Sherlock. The laughter died down and they were both hit with reality. What were they? In a way, they had always known that they loved each other. At least John did, deep down.

 

"When did you know?" John asked Sherlock, "That you loved me, I mean." Sherlock flipped them so he was against the door and John was facing the opposite walls, Sherlock's arms around his waist. John was in heaven. 

 

"For about ten minutes." John stepped out of the man's arms and stared incredulously at him.

 

"Excuse me?"

 

"Well, I have known for a while that I felt something, but I'm not exactly an expert in that subject." Sherlock walked over to the couch, say down, and patted the spot next to him. "And what about you?"

 

John plopped down without the same grace as Sherlock. Sherlock put his arm on John's shoulder to steady him. "I suppose it was the same for me, except I knew it was love, but the entirety of myself did not know it." John leaned back into the couch and sighed. "So now what?"

 

"Now? Well, I guess we sleep," John raised his eyebrow. Sherlock looked around uncomfortably. “I mean, just sleep. And in separate beds, if we're- I mean you're- not ready for um... That step." Sherlock continued to mumble.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"Hmm? Yes?"

 

"I'm ready for that step. But are _we_ ready for that step?" John grabbed Sherlock's hand. Sherlock looked up and grinned. 

 

"I believe so. Yes, we are."

 

They stood up and went into Sherlock's room, holding hands. They both took their suits off and got under the covers in their boxers. Sherlock hesitantly wrapped his arm around John's waist and pulled him close. John leaned into the man and Sherlock buried his head into the crook of John's neck. John was about to doze off when he heard Sherlock's soft voice in his ear.

 

"John?"

 

"Yes?"

 

"Was this the best night of your life?"

 

"You did alright, Holmes." And with that they fell asleep, Sherlock's head cleared of rapid thoughts and John's head cleared of all memories, all except Sherlock. 

  


 

 

  


 

  


 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT IS OVERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR *cries a lot* BUT IT WA SO MUCH FUN! 
> 
>  
> 
> WE WANT TO EITHER DO A SPIN-OFF FIC OR A SEQUEL, BUT DOES ANYONE EVEN READ THIS ANYMORE?
> 
>  
> 
> as always, 
> 
> @COMMENT BELOW@
> 
> its been a wonderful ride.

**Author's Note:**

> @PLEASE COMMENT@
> 
>  
> 
> PLEASE
> 
> ily all who read this first chapter


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